


Grief

by zubateatscakes



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe, Character Death, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Grief/Mourning, Human, M/M, Mild Language, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-06 01:41:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5398085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zubateatscakes/pseuds/zubateatscakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alfred has died. Arthur... doesn't know how to feel. Actually, he doesn't want to feel anything at all. When he goes back to work, though, things won't work as he expects. Indeed, Feliciano happens to notice Arthur's sadness. Human!AU, slash (Ita/Eng).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grief

**Author's Note:**

> Used to be "Grieve and be soothed, dear Arthur", when I published it on fanfictiondotnet. I just decided to post it here and to use the name I gave to the file when I wrote it.  
> I decided not to split the fic in several chapter this time.
> 
> **Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.**

   Arthur kicked the door shut.

   His arms moved clumsily and hit a vase — the potsherds spread randomly throughout the floor. He punched the wall and gritted his teeth. _Bloody_ Alfred. How had he dared to die?

   He trudged into the living room.

   His hand moved violently on a floating shelf and a lot of frames fell to the floor, glass slivers scattering in every direction. He fell on his knees and the splinters nicked his lower legs. He was a helpless, weak creature who couldn't help but think how sadly true that was. He glanced down at the floor and a photo drew his attention. It was one of those taken the year before.

   Messy dark-blond hair, blue eyes semi-closed, Alfred was there in all his _Americanness_. He was grinning widely and cheerfully as ever, his left arm put around Arthur's shoulders, while the latter was blushing. They had turned twenty a few months before and were celebrating New Year's Eve.

 _"Bastard_. _Here's what you are… were_ ," Arthur thought, as if Alfred was guilty of having died, because _certainly_ he wanted to.

   He noticed that the glass protecting the photo wasn't broken and punched it. The blood spilt from his hand onto the American's face and smeared that _bloody_ , now unbearable smile. He punched it again and again, slivers nicking his knuckles. Although he started to feel a growing pain in his hand, he decided to ignore it. Actually, he couldn't care less at the moment.

   He sat on the floor and put his legs near his chest, wrapping his arms around them and hiding his face. He hiccupped and shuddered slightly.

  " _B_ - _bloody… idiot_ , why have you died? Don't you see how I am?" he sobbed and let his hand fall on the floor among the splinters. Tears began to fall from his glassy green eyes and everything became silent. That relative quiet wouldn't last long. Indeed, now he angrily rubbed off any evidence of his weeping and resumed destroying anything related to Alfred.

  The tokens were torn apart, chipped, ripped up and strewn all over the floor in a flawless representation of his feelings. His blond hair messy and dirty, beads of sweat climbing down his reddened face, his thin body tensing, Arthur panted repeatedly. He was now facing the most important gift the American had given him years ago: a teacup for their first anniversary as boyfriend and boyfriend. It was cheap but heartfelt.

   His rage vanished as soon as he realised it. He fell on his knees and began weeping again, his body trembling. His vision blurred. Suddenly, a few sporadic hiccups broke the lifeless, cold silence fallen in that room.

   Arthur fell asleep eventually.

   His eyes snapped open. The images of Alfred's pale face and funeral haunted him all of a sudden. It had happened only the day before.

   He looked around and realised where he was. He had really got crazy before and now he had to tidy up. He sighed and started cleaning that chaos.

   He found the photo he had smeared with blood, picked it up and bring it close to his chest. Now it was marred — almost all the tokens in that room were marred — but he wouldn't throw it away. He would treasure them all. He smiled an insane, unhealthy smile.

   A few days had passed. Arthur sat at his desk in the office. The days off he had taken had just come to an end. He _surely_ looked forward to being asked how much fun he had had in his _holidays_ — sarcastic as always. He would say, "Fun enough to come back here and be hard at work as is my wont." Polite and smooth as a true gentleman, yet that wouldn't let the others know how he really felt. They didn't even know of Alfred's existence — Arthur hadn't told them — nor would they be informed about his dead.

   He tended to be quite withdrawn. Fortunately, the fellow worker who was assigned the seat in front of him at the same desk was quiet, taciturn and discreet, and couldn't understand the other's feeling well. The above-mentioned co-worker was a polite, blond-haired, blue-eyed, young German bloke whose name was Ludwig Beilschmidt. No wrinkles shaped his face. Judging from his physical appearance, it was highly likely that he was in his early twenties, even though he was somehow wiser and cleverer than his fellow workers. One could say that Arthur didn't dislike him at all. Nevertheless, they rarely talked — and, almost every time they did, it was brief ( _too brief_ ) to be called " _talking_ ": they only greeted each other generally!

   Maybe Arthur liked it when someone was able to understand his interlocutor's feelings, although he hadn't realised it yet.

   "Good morning," the man had already sat down when his deep voice reached Arthur's ears. Arthur reciprocated and their dialogue came at an end.

   That quiet was abruptly interrupted by a fellow worker of theirs as soon as the meal break arrived. It was Feliciano Vargas Beilschmidt, Ludwig's foster brother. It seemed the German's father adopted him when he was very young and only added his last name without replacing Feliciano's. Arthur didn't know the reason ― not that he really cared about it.

   Brown-haired, brown-eyed, Feliciano was always a cheerful, energetic, childish thin Italian bloke in his early twenties whose thoughts often concerned pasta, ice-cream, and food more generally — well, at least at work. Attempting to be friendly, he usually spoke in an informal language. He could weep or get frightened without a valid reason. Indeed, _thinking without a single motive_ that Arthur was angry with him, he had jumped, winced or just quivered a lot of times up until now.

   The two brothers left for lunch.

   Arthur had a tea from the vending machine of the office, which wasn't very British of him. He would have time to regret this decision made against his own blood later. He sighed. At least the first half of that work day was gone.

   "Today you have been early than usual," the voice of a man reached Arthur's ears. It was his boss who spoke.

   "I could not fall asleep again today. I hope not to cause any problems," the Brit said. And it was true — who could sleep with nightmares ready to wake you up again and again?

   "Do not worry: we do accept serious workers like you here. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go back to work."

   Arthur sat at his desk again. After a while Ludwig came back and was followed by his noisy, grinning brother. How that _boy_ could act as if he were a dog, Arthur didn't know. " _This stupid, joyful,_ bloody _world of yours is going to end miserably sooner or later and your_ bloody _smile will be gone with it. And I will be there, smirking unfriendly, only to say that you deserved it_ ," he thought cynically. He didn't hate Feliciano, nor did he really want him to feel a loss — or more generally a pain — like his own, but he did suffer. And, certainly, seeing someone as happy as Feliciano was didn't help him at the moment.

   Maybe Arthur was staring at him with a scowl because, when their gazes met, Vargas flinched a little and instantly hid behind his brother. Ludwig began to reassure patiently him that there was nothing to worry about. The Brit ignored them and resumed his work.

   The sun had already set when Arthur raised his eyes from the papers on his desk. He could barely remember the German's farewell. He looked around; almost nobody was there. It was quite normal: generally, only their boss stopped working after them. It was rather strange that Feliciano was working overtime and that Ludwig had left before him.

   Arthur tried to focus again on the documents, but he was too weary to concentrate. Random memories of Alfred flew through his mind, crashing into the walls of his mental health, chipping and scratching them with their sharp, deadly claws. They were tearing him apart as if he were an old, crumbly piece of paper. He was drifting away.

   He breathed heavily. His vision was blurry. He lowered his head, closed his eyelids and put his left thumb and forefinger at the sides of the bridge of his nose to clean any evidence of tears.

   A hand was placed on his left shoulder. He glanced up and found Feliciano smiling warmly and handing him a handkerchief. _Bloody hell_. _Surely,_ all he wanted now was being pitiful. So caustic he could have burnt hell, he smirked inwardly. "I don't need it. _Thank you_ _anyway_ ," he snapped — his final words sounded more like an insult than an expression of gratitude.

   Vargas was wearing his coat so he was probably about to leave. " _Thanks, fewer people to deal with_ ," Arthur thought flatly and mentally rolled his eyes. It wouldn't bring him happiness, but at least it was better than nothing; yet, at the moment, there wasn't a single thing which would please him. Strangely calm, the Italian informed him, "I'll leave it here anyway. Feel free to pick it up." Immediately afterwards, he added, waving his hand, "I'll go back home. We'll see tomorrow. _Ciao_!"

   It was quite strange and made Arthur wonder about Feliciano's behaviour. In no way he could act like this! The Brit would have said he had only dreamt it, but that hanky was the incontestable evidence that it wasn't the case. Maybe he had a prejudice or two. No, that couldn't be — he couldn't accept it.

   He couldn't resume his work now. He needed some fresh air. He had to go away before what had happened previously happened again. He quickly picked his things up and stared at the handkerchief for a while. He could still sense the tears at the sides of his eyes. He snorted and took it. Probably, he would need it.

   Arthur violently closed the front door of his house and quickly locked it. He leant his back against it and slowly let himself fall down on the floor. His fingers dug into his head and intertwined with his hair. Tears flowed smoothly from his eyes and convulsive gasps left his mouth harshly. His left hand let go of his locks, clenched in a fist and forcefully hit the floor. It loosened immediately afterwards. He hugged his legs with his left arm and hid his head in his knees.

   They lied. _Who_? Them all. It was not true that sorrow faded away with the flow of time. It grew and became stronger and more painful. He didn't know how long he could bear it.

   " _If you didn't try to flee from the pain and you did face it, things would get better_." _Bloody_ conscience. Nobody could deal with such pain. He could only stop feeling anything. The pain would disappear. If he suffered now, it was because he couldn't suppress his emotions as he should. " _Surely_ ," his mind was being sarcastic, but he didn't pay attention to it — he was too busy on telling himself that everything would be okay and the pain would disappear. But he didn't realise that he would be empty.

   After quite a while, he calmed down a little and his breath became regular. He searched his pockets for a tissue, rubbed off his tears and blew his nose. Later, he realised that that was Feliciano's hanky. He would wash it and give it back to him.

   He trudged into his room and wearily flopped down on the bed. He looked at his feet, grunted and kicked off his shoes. He snatched his pillow and hugged it tightly, head sinking into his soft, faithful friend — the only one that had been faithful with him. Alfred had betrayed him because he had died. Pillows were immortal instead.

   Hands unconsciously holding Vargas' handkerchief, Arthur sank into sleep.

   He awakened abruptly. Alfred's pale face was imprinted in his mind like a fire-heated mark on a cow. His cheeks were wet — he had shed tears during his nightmare, probably. He cleaned them with the hanky and realised he had held it throughout his dream. He glanced at his alarm clock. He had slept barely three hours. He sighed and started tossing and turning restlessly.

   He got out of bed. If he couldn't fall asleep anymore, at least he would wash Feliciano's handkerchief. He squeezed and put it on the heater as soon as he finished his task.

   He wasn't drowsy. He wasn't going to do nothing but toss and turn in his bed again, though. He entered the living room and turned on his computer.

   The words followed one another and soon crowded his mind, changing into characters, foreign lands, acts and vivid emotions — there were no problems, and there wouldn't be since they weren't _his_ feelings.

   He finished reading the story in no time at all and immediately searched the web for another one. The front cover image of a fiction enraptured his eyes. Sitting on the ground, legs at his chest, an angel was depicted. Each hand clutching its opposite shin, fingers digging into that milky, silky skin, he was desperately trying to embrace himself. His medium, wavy blond hair hid his sorrowful green eyes partially. The emerald in his irises was so dark it seemed almost black; maybe it was because of that if Arthur couldn't help but think that they were deep indeed. A lot of soaked blue plumes were falling — and had fallen as well — from his two long, feathered wings.

   The Brit examined the summary thoroughly and opened the story. The first thing he saw and read was a link — the link of the artist who had drawn the front cover. Arthur was so _bloody_ curious he couldn't help but click the underlined blue " _here_ ". He quickly rolled the mouse wheel to get a sense of their style — which seemed to be digital painting — and bookmarked the page. Then, he checked their data and found out that "they" was a "he".

   He started studying thoroughly his paintings. His eyes fluttered closed twice and he fell asleep on the desk.

_Arthur found Alfred walking and called him, but the American didn't answer. The Brit called him again and again but heard no reply. Then, he started moving forward towards him, but he couldn't reach him, no matter what he did and how much he tried. His beloved having disappeared all of a sudden, Arthur flinched._

_His feet now slow and hesitant, he looked around warily and restlessly. Nonetheless, he stumbled into something stiff and awkwardly fell on it. Limbs aching, he stood up clumsily and the sight of what he dreaded the most tore him apart. Beneath his body, there was a corpse — and not an average, worthless corpse, but Alfred's. Blood spread from his chest to the ground and roughly staining his arms, face pale as white, the American was there. Holding him by his shoulders, the Brit repeatedly shook him. Nevertheless, his beloved didn't move at all._

   He awoke with a start and his eyes snapped open. _Bloody_ _hell_. Although it wasn't the first time he dreamt that Alfred was covered in blood, it still made him feel upset.

   " _Oh, please, dear_ bloody _mind: keep on showing me countless scenarios in which he could have died. As if I didn't feel bad enough_ ," it was only morning and he was already caustic — this would _surely_ be a good day.

   Actually, he hadn't found his boyfriend's corpse. Maybe it was because of that if his brain was sickly proposing all those kind of things to him.

 _Stupid_ Alfred. How could he save a completely stranger and leave him alone? Why had he had to act like hero? Hadn't he thought of him? Was the Brit worthless for him?

   " _If only I'd been there when it happened_ ," Arthur thought regretfully. If so, then Alfred would be there and they would be happy as they had been few weeks before.

   His fist hit the table forcefully. His beloved was dead and there were no chances to bring him back. He had to stop thinking about ifs which couldn't be realised anymore.

   Arthur unlocked his computer and looked at the time on the screen. His alarm clock would ring _only_ within three hours. _Marvellous_ — such a _promising_ day, wasn't it?

   He couldn't sleep again. He got ready for work. It was too early to go to the office though.

   He resumed his thorough examination of _Ronice_ , the web artist he had discovered the day before. He flew from humans and deep oceans to high skies and mythological creatures, from personifications of sins to exhibitions of joy and purity. He liked those paintings indeed.

   Arthur was early. He entered the office and looked around; nobody was there. He headed for Feliciano's desk and put _that_ handkerchief and a note saying " _Thank you_ " on its surface. He hid his kindness under a cover of papers and began to work.

   Vargas arrived after a while and sat at his desk. Arthur raised his eyes and saw him smiling and holding his hanky; thinking he could have been less gentle with him, he huffed and puffed and shook his head. He resumed his work.

   The words of the documents collided with his feelings in a never-ending fight. Blades clashing, blood pouring, each side of that war shouted harshly to the other. Feet digging heavily into the ground, impacts lifting dust, now they thrust their swords against their foes, and now they block enemy attacks with their shields. And, if this was needed not to be torn apart, Arthur would accept it with joy. Keeping together all the scraps of his personality was the sole thing he sought now — Alfred wouldn't have wanted him to break.

   Lunch time arrived. Arthur took some tea from the vending machine and sat at his desk again. He knew he should eat at least once every twenty-four hours — he hadn't had dinner the day before, nor did he eat something solid during the previous meal break — but he wasn't hungry. And, even if he was, he couldn't go searching for food and hope that all his feelings would not gain the upper hand on him. Alfred wouldn't have wanted this — he would've fought for his physical health. Arthur mentally rolled his eyes — he would eat later, _maybe_. Now he didn't hope to be overwhelmed among his co-workers. He took out a book from his shoulder bag at his feet and began reading it.

   The break ended soon and he resumed his work. The documents unsheathed their swords and raised their shields. The fight began again.

   The sun set and Ludwig said his farewell. Arthur politely reciprocated and kept on examining his papers thoroughly. When he finished, he glanced at his wristwatch. Dinner time had passed at least an hour before. Still, he wasn't hungry. He looked around; nobody was there — nobody but him, his boss and Vargas. He frowned a little. In the first place, it was rather unusual that Feliciano worked overtime, so catching him doing it twice in a week was _extremely_ strange. He shrugged and put that thought aside.

   He took another paper and read it quickly. He was tired though; his feelings were going to prevail over those documents and win the war soon, and that wasn't what he wanted to happen. Plus, he couldn't do his job properly. If he didn't hope to be overwhelmed in front of Feliciano again, he had to stop working and go home right now.

   He picked up his things and headed for the door, but a voice reached his ears and made him stop, "Ve~ Arthur. I'm going too, what about eating something together?"

   The Brit stiffened and answered coldly, "No."

   "Eh? Why?" the Italian moaned like a child.

   "I have something to do," Arthur lied — all he wanted now was to run away as soon as possible. He wasn't ready for this — he wasn't ready to speak with people and act as if he were fine, especially after a day of hard work. Yes, fulfilling all those tasks helped — and had helped — him to ignore his emotions. It was tiring though.

   The second hand was ticking ceaselessly and Time itself was ageing little by little. Although the sound didn't reach his ears, it did thunder in his head. Those _bloody_ tick-tocks were making him nervous. Whooshing in his mind, they collided violently with his thoughts, which almost lost their balance. He would go insane, he knew it. He had to escape, and he had to do it now.

   "Ve~, and what is it?" Feliciano asked.

   "None of your business," Arthur stated cold-heartedly, "and now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go."

   "But—"

   "Farewell," he ended their conversation and got out of the office in no time.

   "Uh… Bye." Feliciano's words seemed uncertain and were left unheard. The same fate happened to his sigh. He just didn't want to eat alone again — he didn't like it at all.

   Pace quickened, Arthur walked down the streets. He passed a pub without stopping. He needed alcohol, but he promised Alfred that he would neither booze nor drink to wash his feelings away. Actually, doing that wouldn't work anyway — he would become only more upset. Besides, gentlemen always kept their word, and they didn't make promises they couldn't fulfil.

   He locked the front door and went into the kitchen. He took a can of corn, opened it and ate the food; then, he let the cylindrical container fall into the sink. Alfred wouldn't be mad at him — Arthur had fed himself.

   The American was dead; still, somehow he could be angry with Arthur if he didn't take care of himself. That was what the Brit thought. It was irrational, but he couldn't help but act as if it were the truth and deem it consequently.

   Arthur needed to distract himself if he didn't want to be overwhelmed again. He entered the living room and turned on his computer. He searched the bookmarks for the link he found the day before. His left elbow on the desk, his head on his palm, he resumed his examination.

   His eyelids were heavy and sometimes drooped, but he didn't listen to his body and kept studying _Ronice_ 's paintings. Their colours were like words: they were meaningful, they changed into emotions, stories and so forth, they inhabited his mind, and — above all — they did help him to flee from reality.

   His elbow slowly slid on the desk and his head followed its motion. He fell asleep.

   A week or so passed without any remarkable changes: he went to work, fought with his emotions and Feliciano asked him _daily_ to eat together. He still couldn't understand why the Italian worked overtime and wasn't afraid of speaking to him anymore. The Brit didn't wonder about this that much, though. When he was home, he read or observed thoroughly _Ronice_ 's profile.

   His feelings were getting worse and worse: each time they overwhelmed him, they did it more violently than before. Maybe ignoring them wasn't the best idea he had had. No, that couldn't be: no one could bear that pain, so he had to suppress his emotions — once and for all.

   Actually, something new had happened: Ludwig sometimes stared at him for a while for no reason. Arthur hadn't brought up the subject with him, but he wasn't going to tolerate this forever.

   That day he sat at his desk as usual and began to work. Beilschmidt arrived, greeted him and started examining his documents, his gaze fixing on the Brit every now and then.

   Nothing had changed for hours. Arthur raised his eyes from the papers and saw Ludwig averting his gaze. He looked around. Most of the employees had already left. He tried to focus on his job, but he felt that someone was staring at him persistently. He puffed under his breath and raised his gaze again just to catch the German averting his eyes. "Yes? May I help you?" he asked, feigning politeness.

   Ludwig answered awkwardly, "No, _Vielen Dank_."

   "Oh, yes, _surely_ : you've stared at me countless times for almost a week and you don't need anything at all. Quite the flawless logic, isn't it?" Irony had just unsheathed its sword and put itself in front of Arthur to shield him.

   "Therefore, you have noticed it," Ludwig noted in a low voice. He didn't seem to have sensed the Brit's wry tone.

   "Why have you begun staring at me?"

   "Um, well. It's…" Ludwig began to speak but soon stopped in embarrassment. He breathed deeply and confessed, "My brother told me he had seen you sad. I haven't noticed it, so I tried to observe whether there was something unusual or not."

 _Of course_ the German hadn't noted that — he wasn't the most emphatic person on Earth at all and generally Arthur could hide his feeling well. Or at least that was what he thought. "Well, as you see, I'm perfectly fine. Therefore, stop bothering me, please," he stated flatly. He didn't want Beilschmidt's pity — he didn't want anyone's pity.

   He concealed the bitter anger he felt towards that _bloody_ Italian: he didn't like it when people talked or speculated about him behind his back. He only wanted his quiet, which meant that no one should ask him how he felt. He would speak with Vargas later. _Definitely_.

   "I see. Please, forgive me, I generally do not act this way," Ludwig replied politely. Probably, he did believe his words, since he stopped staring at him. At least, he had been sincere ― Arthur appreciated it very much.

   Their dialogue came to an end. After an hour or so, the German stood up, said his farewell and apologised to him again. The Englishman uttered an "Apology accepted" and resumed his work.

   The sun set and he didn't raise his eyes from the papers. When he finished his task and picked up his things, he headed towards the door and stopped near Vargas' desk. Before the Italian could ask him to eat together, he mustered all his courage and spoke flatly, "I do not like when people act nice to my face and then say things about me behind my back. Have I been clear enough? Besides, _as you can see_ , I'm fine, _not_ sad."

   "Ve~?"

   He was getting annoyed. "I'm talking about Ludwig."

   "Ludwig is my brother: I share almost everything with him, ve~!" he said calmly.

   "Well, then, _please_ , make sure that what concerns me would not be one of that 'everything' anymore. _Thanks_ ," his tone was a little harsh this time. The Italian winced a little.

   Arthur moved towards the door, but Feliciano's voice stopped him, "Ve~ Arthur, please, stop. What about an ice-cream, this time? I'll treat you to it!"

   Hadn't he flinched just a second before? "Why should I accept? Wasn't it clear that I am angry at you?"

   "Eh?! Wasn't that a way to apologise?" he moaned and finished picking his things up.

   "I don't like ice-creams," Arthur replied coldly.

   Feliciano smiled childishly and exclaimed, "I don't see a single problem with that: I'll eat yours for you!"

   "Oh. And this should have me forgive you. _Obviously_ ," he retorted wittily.

   "Ve~," he murmured cheerfully, eyes half-closed, a wide grin lightening his face.

   The shadow of a smile appeared on Arthur's lips, but was soon replaced by an undecipherable, emotionless expression.

   The Italian insisted, "Please, Arthur, come. I want an ice-cream, please Arthur, please, ice-cream, ice-cream please—"

   Arthur glanced at his watch and stated, "The ice-cream parlours are closed now: it's almost ten past nine in the evening and it's March."

   "I know one which is always opened! Please, Arthur, come. Please, Arthur, ice-cream—"

   " _Really? I could have expected it though_ ," the Brit thought.

   They discussed like this for a while and, whenever the Englishman tried to find an excuse not to go out with Feliciano, he failed.

   "This would be the only time we go out, is it clear?" he stated. The Italian had never been so stubborn with him — during the week which had just passed he hadn't insisted that much. Actually, he hadn't insisted at all. Then why did he do it now? Arthur wondered whether he would ever be able to understand those sudden mood swings or not — not that he truly cared.

   " _Surely_ this would," Feliciano replied happily.

   What was that? Vargas being sarcastic? Was he dreaming? He pinched himself. No, that wasn't a dream — certainly, he had just imagined it. Indeed, the Italian was acting as usual now. Maybe his mind was tricking him, which wasn't the first time it happened. The Brit shrugged inwardly and put aside that reflection.

   "Hurry up," Arthur uttered flatly. The sooner they went, the sooner Arthur would go back home. He hoped it would be quick and painless.

   The streets of London weren't particularly crowded. The lights spread from the windows of the buildings and illuminated the roads where the lampposts were ineffective, but they prevented the inhabitants from seeing the stars. The pedestrians were walking slowly. Some were drinking coffee and others were chatting in a low voice; some were holding hands and others, probably thinking they were late, were watching at their watch. An air of relative happiness surrounded their gestures.

   "Disgusting," the Brit's thoughts became words and accidentally left his mouth.

   Feliciano, who was guiding him and talking non-stop, frowned a little and complained, "That's so spiteful…"

   "They smile — and act — as if Life were beautiful," he explained carelessly and added immediately afterwards, "which is not."

   The Italian flinched slightly but laughed it off. His right hand on the back of his neck, fingers digging into the skin, he spoke awkwardly, "Quite cynical, I guess." Arthur would've sworn that his voice was trembling and that a chill went down his spine.

   "No, I am only being realistic," he simply replied. He hoped that Feliciano wouldn't deem him sad. All things considered, he only gave him a hint of his mindset. If Vargas mistook it and linked it with the Brit's feelings, Arthur could point out that the two things were not necessarily connected. He shook his head, his thoughts slipping away. He shouldn't over-think if he didn't want to be overwhelmed by emotions among the crowd.

   They reached the ice-cream parlour. The store was quite spacious. There was only the indispensable furniture, such as a long counter with tons of flavours. The Italian's eyes were sparking. _So childish_.

   "This shop has _quite a few_ flavours, hasn't it?" Arthur remarked sarcastically. A smile lightening his face, Feliciano nodded and hummed. The Brit rolled his eyes.

   Suddenly calm and serious, Vargas asked him, "Which flavours would you like on your ice-cream?"

   "I thought I had already told you I do not like ice-cream. You can take whatever you want since you will eat it anyway," such flat words left Arthur's mouth. He only wanted that situation to end soon so that he could go home. He needed his pillow — they hadn't been together since a week before because he had repeatedly slept with his head resting on the desk. He kind of missed it.

   "No! I can't," the Italian exclaimed. Then, he immediately turned serious and stated, "You have to choose. I won't be forgiven otherwise!"

 _What a strange way to apologise_! The smile which, unnoticed, escaped Arthur's lips could have been less faint if he hadn't been so tired both physically and mentally. The Brit snorted and rolled his eyes, which caused Feliciano to insist persistently, "Please, Arthur, choose. Please, choose—"

   "Okay, okay. I've got it," Arthur uttered and rubbed his temples, "Lemon and Fior di latte."

   "Cone or cup?"

   "Are you serious?" the Brit asked and, seeing the Italian nod, puffed and said, "Cone."

   They walked down the streets of London. Feliciano seemed indefatigable. Actually, he seemed to recharge his batteries while strolling, eating ice-cream or talking — especially talking.

   The Englishman halted, puffed and asked, "What are you afraid of?" He had noted that the words had flowed more and more speedily from his co-worker's mouth since they left the office.

   Seeing the quizzical look on the Italian's face, he explained, "You've never stopped talking since we left the office. You don't even talk to me usually."

   Feliciano grimaced and hung his head in shame.

   "You're afraid to bore people so you try to entertain them by talking non-stop, but some people don't appreciate it and could think you're just the usual boring chatterbox," Arthur uttered flatly. Hands in the pockets of his jeans, he added, "You should eat your ice-creams before it melts."

   Then, he resumed walking. Soon Feliciano realised that he was left behind and exclaimed, "Hey Arthur, Wait!"

   A "Ve~" escaped his mouth as soon as he reached his fellow worker. He was cheerful again.

   After a while, they said their farewell to each other.

   Feliciano ran down the streets and went home. He had just found the inspiration he needed. He turned on his computer and connected his graphic tablet. Hands moving smoothly and skilfully, he sketched a wise young male oracle dressed in modern clothes.

   Arthur trudged back home, locked the door and entered the kitchen. He ate reluctantly, walked into his room and flopped down on the bed. He hugged his pillow and gently caressed it.

   Morpheus silently left his seat and winged the air. He reached the bed and slowly landed on the blanket. He crouched and petted the Brit's head with his invisible, yet warm hand. Arthur's eyelids drooped and suddenly shut. His consciousness gave way to dreams and his forehead relaxed. Mute tears began to fell smoothly from his eyes.

   The deity stroked repeatedly his hair and let happy, past memories of Alfred fill his mind. Both joy and sorrow were running down the Brit's spine — in his depths, Arthur truly wanted to revive those remembrances, but, now that his beloved was dead, they brought sadness as well. Still, he would never forget those bittersweet dreams.

   When the sun started to lighten the sky, Morpheus left his side and Arthur woke up.

   The Brit entered the office, sat at his desk and started working. The hours passed rapidly and without any remarkable change. Slowly, the employees left the room to go home. The sun set and Ludwig said his farewell.

   Arthur picked up his things and headed towards the door, but Feliciano's voice stopped him, "Ve~ Arthur, what about eating something together? Please, Arthur! Please."

   The Brit turned and saw the Italian do a puppy face. He would like to say he didn't want to, but that expression prevented him from refusing. He still felt sorrowful and weary. Adding "guilty" to his emotional state wasn't in his plans. Plus, he had realised that spending time with Vargas could help him not to think of Alfred.

   He only nodded, but this was enough for Feliciano to drag him into a cheap, yet pleasant cafeteria nearby. The store wasn't particularly ample, but its white walls made it look bigger. The table were tidy, the waiters efficient and discreet, and food tasty and abundant.

   Feliciano never stopped talking. He sounded more natural than the day before, though.

   "Ve~ Arthur, thank you very much!" he exclaimed all of a sudden.

   "For what?" he asked, a quizzical look on his face.

   "For being here! I really appreciate it. I don't like eating alone," he clarified.

   "Don't mention it," he said flatly.

   After a while Feliciano asked, "Why do you act so coldly?"

   "I've sold my heart," the Brit jested dryly and smirked coldly without hearing his tablemate's nervous laugh.

   " _If so, you wouldn't burst into tears, nor would you be overwhelmed by emotions_ ," a voice in his head wittily remarked. Unconsciously, he placed a hand near his left temple and gritted his teeth.

   "Ve, Arthur, what's wrong?" the Italian asked worriedly.

 _Bloody_ _hell_. It happened again: Feliciano saw him when he was weak. The Brit lied, "Nothing, It's only a headache."

   His tablemate seemed to believe him, since he advised him to rest more. After a while, he asked, "Hey Arthur, would you mind if tomorrow we had dinner here again?"

   The Brit puffed but accepted the invitation, which caused a serene, happy "Ve~" to leave Vargas' mouth. All things considered, Feliciano's company wasn't that bad. Plus, it often prevented him from thinking of Alfred.

   After a while, they said their farewell and went to their respective houses.

 

   The days passed and Arthur slowly became accustomed to the Italian's presence. Feliciano began greeting him each morning without any sign of fear in his gestures and sometimes asked him to have lunch with him and his brother.

   Despite all those years spent together, Ludwig still couldn't understand how his brother could quiver for nothing and suddenly be brave enough to persistently try to befriend the people whom he was scared of. Nonetheless, the German was proud of him and deemed him strong indeed — in his own bizarre way, of course.

   Much to Ludwig's surprise, Arthur had accepted the invitation and now they were sitting at a table in the cafeteria near the office. Feliciano's voice was surrounding their meal, words flowing ceaselessly and quickly from his mouth. Even though the German had known his brother for so long, he still lost the thread of the conversation sometimes. The Italian spoke too quickly and often said useless things — they weren't always on the same wavelength and the blond young man occasionally needed to distract himself from listening to him if he didn't want his own brain to explode. Therefore, he wouldn't blame Arthur for ignoring Feliciano: probably, his fellow worker wasn't accustomed to someone who babbled all the day long.

   "That will cause you a serious stomach ache," the Brit said flatly. Ludwig blinked: was Arthur really paying attention despite seeming distracted?

   "Ve~, my stomach is strong and can endure everything. Right, Mister Stomach?" the Italian replied playfully.

   "Well, whatever. I won't pull back your hair when you throw up your soul," he stated, smirking slightly.

   "You're so mean!" Feliciano complained childishly and pouted but stopped as soon as he bit his slice of pizza. He tried to chat with him every now and then, but the Brit wasn't that kind of person who talked very much. Indeed, mouth shut, eyes on his own food, Arthur only hummed in reply as often as he could.

   The weeks passed and the Englishman succeeded in ignoring his feeling. He gained a fragile, unstable balance. Hanging out with the Italian became a pleasant routine — somehow, he liked Feliciano's company. His nightmares had become less frequent and then had come to an end. Without his realising it, the memories of Alfred had slowly stopped occurring to him, as if the American had never existed. Indeed, he had never thought of his beloved Alfred in the past days.

   When this came to his mind, the sun had already set and Ludwig had left. Arthur looked around and noticed that Feliciano wasn't there even though his things were still on his desk — the Italian kept working overtime and the Brit hadn't asked him why: it would've depicted him as being interested in his fellow worker's life, which wasn't the truth, _definitely_!

   Arthur wrote him an apologetic note which said that he wouldn't hang out with him because he had just remembered he had other things to do. He placed it on Feliciano's desk and left quickly.

   He needed alcohol.

   How in the world had he forgotten Alfred? How could he be so cruel? He was an awful person indeed! Men were meant to forget his beloved who had passed away, though. But forgetting Alfred? How could it be? He couldn't even think about it without shuddering! Still, it had just happened, no matter how he put it in his mind. He himself was an average bloke and Alfred had died. Therefore, what was the mean of being a gentleman and fulfilling his promises if he was doomed to forget the man whom he promised it?

   These thoughts haunting his mind, he trudged into a pub and sat down on a stool.

   "Mister Kirkland? Long time no see! What brings you here?" the barman asked friendly.

   "Oh… Yes, indeed. It has been quite a while, hasn't it? I felt like drinking something, so I've come here," he explained uninterestedly.

   "I see… Make your order and I'll bring it to you," he smiled.

   "A whiskey, please," he requested and a glass of that drink was placed on the counter in no time. Arthur stared at it, as if it were the point of no return. Then, he gulped it down. He asked for another one and then for another one again. Soon he became dizzy. His vision was blurry and his feelings started stabbing him mercilessly. He deserved it though. It was the fair punishment for his action. Now he was drifting away, but it didn't matter — nothing was important, not anymore. These thoughts haunting his mind, he gulped the umpteenth drink down.

   Feliciano was slowly walking down the street when he noticed Arthur in a pub. He didn't understand: he thought that the Brit had something important to do, not get drunk and avoid him! This surely hurt him. Still, he went into the bar and headed towards his fellow worker. He did want to understand.

   "I thought you had something important to do," he uttered bitterly, but his friend didn't reply and only glanced up at him. Seeing those sullen, gloomy eyes, Feliciano winced a little. He mustered up his courage and asked gently, "What's wrong, Arthur?"

   "Go away", the Brit slurred in a low, harsh voice.

   "You've drunk enough, haven't you?"

   "Mind your own business!" he raised his voice a little.

   "Come on! I'll bring you home," the Italian said and touched his friend's shoulder, but Arthur pushed the hand away and stared at him dreadfully.

   Pure fear flashed in Feliciano's eyes. Noting it, the Brit quietened suddenly and glanced down apologetically. He paid and stood up. Then, he tried to make his way towards the door, but he couldn't help but sway unsteadily.

   "Won't you come?" he asked Feliciano.

   "Oh… I'm here," the Italian faltered and approached his friend. "What's your address?"

   Address given, both went to Arthur's dwelling. The Brit searched his pockets for the key and unlocked the door.

   "So… Here we are," the Italian stated in a low voice.

   "Indeed," he slurred awkwardly, "It's a bit late, isn't it? Well… You may stay — if you want to, of course."

   "Are you sure?" Feliciano asked. The Brit nodded and stepped aside to let him in. Then, he locked the door and said, "Make yourself at home. You can use the room down the hallway to your left. The bathroom is the second door on your right, if you want to take a shower. The first door on the left is the living room. I'll be in the kitchen — you have to pass through the living room to find it. Would you like to eat or drink anything? Anything but pasta, I mean."

   "No, thanks, but I'll take a shower if you really don't mind."

   "Go ahead. I'll put a hair dryer on the bed... And, if you wait a minute, I'll give you a towel," that said, he searched the wardrobe in the guest's room and handed the bath towel to Feliciano.

   He went into the kitchen, made some tea and sat down on a chair. He started sipping it. Generally, it helped him not to have a terrible hangover the day after.

   Now that he had nothing to do, his thoughts went back to the pub. Seeing Feliciano's eyes, he stopped thinking of Alfred and got a grip on himself again. He still felt a little dizzy though. He sighed and washed his teacup. He sat down again and looked out of the window. His eyelids drooped and soon he fell asleep.

   Something was touching his shoulder. His eyes fluttered open.

   "You fell asleep in the kitchen," Feliciano said.

   "Oh, I see… Well, thank you," he replied while rubbing his eyes. The Italian smiled in return.

   While they were leaving the living room, Feliciano noted that a frame was lying face down on a shelf and approached to lift it up.

   " _Bloody hell_! Do not dare," Arthur threatened, but it was too late and his guest was already observing it. There were two fellows in the foreground: one was Arthur and the other was a grinning man who had an arm put on the Brit's shoulder. It was a shame that that wide smile was smeared with dried blood.

   Arthur snatched the picture out of his friend's hands and looked at him harshly. Feliciano flinched and apologised, "S-sorry! P-please don't beat me!"

   Taken aback, the Brit murmured, "Never mind," and headed for his room. Then, he flopped down on his bed. He was drunk indeed if he had not remembered to hide that photo. Soon all became dark.

   He woke up and glanced at his alarm clock. It was early in the morning, but it was Sunday and he didn't have to go to work. His head sank into the pillow with a thud. He turned and soon he fell asleep again. He would ignore the world for a little while longer.

Someone was gently shaking him by his left shoulder. The Brit groaned a little.

   "Hey Arthur, can I cook something?" a cheerful voice reached his ears.

   The Brit's eyes fluttered open and he remembered that Feliciano decided to stay for the night. He rubbed his eyes, leant against the headboard and focused on his co-worker's outline. His head was throbbing. "I can cook if you'd like to eat something."

   "Ve~, I'd like to cook you something to thank you for your hospitality."

   "Well, I don't think I deserve it: I haven't been very friendly as a host. You saw it by yourself yesterday."

   "No: you were right. I shouldn't have pried into your life when you didn't want me to. I mean, it was quite clear you didn't want it: that photo was lying face down! When you want to talk about it, I'll be there."

   "Don't worry. Thanks anyway," he whispered.

   "Ve~… Go and take a shower, I'll cook our breakfast!" Feliciano commanded. Seeing the Brit's quizzical look, he raised his hands apologetically and stated half-jokingly, "You told me to make myself at home."

   Arthur chuckled and said, "It's still my house."

   "Never mind!" the Italian exclaimed playfully and exited the room.

   "Hey, wait! You haven't even asked what I'd like to eat!"

   "Ve~… It'll be a surprise!" he giggled and headed for the kitchen while humming a song.

   Arthur sighed and flashed a smile.

   He washed and dressed himself. The shower had helped him with his headache but had also brought his memories of Alfred back to his mind.

   Hair still wet, he lay down on the bed. A pale blue light was filtering through the window and gave the room a cold atmosphere. He tried to hold the tears back, but they started to fall anyway. He wiped them from his face but they kept on wetting it. _Bloody hell_ , that wasn't supposed to happen, Feliciano was still in his house. Stupid was his mind, which couldn't help but remind him of Alfred in moments like that!

   He grabbed the photo he had snatched from the Italian the day before and put it close to his heart. He curled up and faced the wind while showing his back to the door.

   "Ve~ Arthur, I've just put our breakfast in the oven! In half an hour it should be cooked," Feliciano said cheerfully. After looking at him, he suggested, "You should dry your hair."

   "What's the point?" the Brit asked flatly.

   "What?" the Italian uttered, taken aback. He approached a little and saw him holding the photo close to his chest. He sat next to Arthur's head. He didn't listen to the answer and asked gently, "He's died, hasn't he?"

   After a brief pause in which neither Arthur nor Feliciano spoke, the Italian added, "I know how you feel."

   The Brit wiped his face with his right hand and, supporting his weight with his left arm, he sat next to the brown-headed bloke. His voice faint but still harsh, he queried, "No, you don't. How could you possibly know it? You're always so happy that looking at you hurts sometimes. I don't want your pity."

   "I know it. Trust me: I do know how you feel. After my family died a long time ago, I felt like a wreck. Sometimes I started crying for no reasons — I missed my parents and my brother, and nobody could give them back to me. However, I understood something eventually," he whispered.

   Still unsure but curious, Arthur looked at him. Feliciano continued, "They wouldn't want us to suffer and waste our life: it would make them sad. You should face your feelings and get a grip on yourself again." He paused and patted the Brit's left shoulder. While caressing it slowly and gently, he added, "This greyness doesn't suit you."

   "And how do you know that? On which bases can you say that you know that I'm not grey?" The Brit's voice was less harsh.

   "The picture you're holding right now speaks by itself," he whispered in his left ear. Arthur blushed slightly. Feliciano picked up the hair dryer and started to blow-dry his friend's locks. The Englishman jolted and asked, "What are you doing?"

   "Ve~ don't fidget, Arthur: I'm only drying your hair. You've scared me," he whined; his friend stayed silent but let him do it. It was pleasant — Feliciano's fingers were running smoothly through his clean hair.

   After a while the Brit said, "Alfred."

   "What?"

   "His name was Alfred and he died few months ago." Feliciano pressed the blond man's shoulder with his right hand and hugged him loosely.

   "Tell me, how is it that it seems you need help for almost everything and then you come up with this?" Arthur asked and chuckled nervously.

   "Sometimes those who always seem weak can behave properly when something very bad happened to their friends."

   "Who told it?"

   "My mother did," he uttered. Arthur's hand reached Feliciano's and turned off the hair dryer. The Brit looked in his friend's eyes and asked, "Would you like to tell me what happened to your family?"

   The Italian breathed heavily, squeezed his friend's hand and started to narrate, "It happened almost fifteen years ago, that is when I was six. Ludwig and I were playing together in the living room while our dad — well, at that time he was only his dad — was reading some documents for work… Yes, he and Ludwig are like peas in a pod."

   He scratched his head and laughed nervously. Then, he continued, "Suddenly the phone rang and Dad… Ludwig's dad — sorry, it's a habit of mine, you know?"

   "Don't worry. It's okay. I understand. You may call him 'Dad' if you want," Arthur murmured and squeezed his hand to soothe him: the Italian had done the same before, so it could work.

   Feliciano smiled faintly and spoke, "Thank you, Art. Well… Ludwig's dad lifted the receiver and stiffened all of a sudden. Then, he turned towards me and kneeled down. He held me by my shoulders and said that my parents and my brother Lovino as well had just had a car accident and that none of them had survived. I remember that my eyes were watering and he was hugging me. That day he promised me he would adopt me and so did he. He and my parents were close friends and he didn't want me to be sent away, since I didn't have other living relatives. When our hug ended, Ludwig embraced me. He helped me a lot during that period — I think I would be a totally different person if I hadn't had him. I'm really thankful for what they did and I don't want to waste this opportunity at all."

   The silence fell between them. After a while Arthur raised his head and whispered, "Thank you, Feliciano."

   "No, no, no: it's Feli, please," he uttered gently, his whispered words brushing against the Brit's skin. He looked at the alarm clock and, standing up and outstretching his left hand, he added, "The food should be almost baked. Let's go, shall we?"

   Arthur grabbed his hand to stand up and they went into the kitchen. The air smelled good. Feliciano took the baking pan out of the oven.

   "Muffins?" the Englishman asked.

   "Yes," Feliciano answered and nodded while filling a small pot with water. He put it on the burner and turned on the cooker; then, he took a tray from the cupboard and he carefully removed the muffins from the pan. Seated on a chair, hugging his legs, Arthur observed him without uttering a single word.

   Two small plates and two teacups were placed on the table and were followed by the tray immediately afterwards. Feliciano took a seat.

   "If you want to give vent to your emotions, speak freely or tell me what happen, I'll be there and I'll listen to you," he murmured and sipped his tea slowly.

   Arthur nodded imperceptibly and the silence fell between them. He bit a muffin and chewed slowly. He mumbled, "It's tasty."

   "Ve~?" the Italian uttered, his voice raising. "Do you really mean it? Ve~, I'm glad you like it!" Now he was getting excited and soon he started talking non-stop ― he was the usual Feliciano again.

   Arthur put his left elbow on the table and rested his head on his open palm. He picked up his spoon with his right hand and stirred his tea placidly. His eyes never leaving his friend's outline, he held the cup by its handle and lifted it. He took a sip of his drink.

   That cheerful atmosphere was back again. Feliciano was strange indeed. Sometimes he seemed so frivolous and then he came out of nowhere with those heartfelt, wise words only to start babbling again immediately afterwards.

   Arthur sipped his tea and soon finished it.

   Feliciano took a large dish, stored the few surviving muffins and protected them with a domed lid so that Arthur could eat them later. Then, he put the plates, the teacups, the tray, the small pot and the baking pan in the sink and searched the kitchen for the dish detergent.

   Eyes following his guest throughout the room, the Brit asked, "What are you doing?"

   "Searching for the washing-up liquid to wash the dishes," he uttered without ceasing his noisy movements.

   "You don't have to. I can do it by myself later," Arthur stated flatly.

   "If I let you do, I wouldn't show you my gratitude. Therefore, let me do," he asked in a low voice.

   "Let me help you then: I would feel uneasy if I didn't do anything," the Brit admitted.

   "Well, this being the case, you can help me," he suggested. They reached a compromise ― Feliciano would wash and Arthur would dry. The Englishman handed him the dish detergent.

   The morning passed easily.

   "We'll see tomorrow, Art. _Ciao_!" Feliciano said.

   "You may stay here for lunch if you want, you know," the Brit replied awkwardly.

   "I'd like to, but Ludwig and I have already planned to eat together," he clarified, smiling warmly. Arthur stiffened; hence, the Italian added, "Don't worry: I won't tell him anything."

   The Brit relaxed a little and thanked him.

   He locked the front door, leant against it and sighed heavily. He had shown his emotions too much. Now he feared the consequences — a part of him liked it though. He repeatedly told himself that the Italian was trustworthy, but only the flow of time would make him believe his own thoughts.

   He sighed again and went into the living room. He turned on his computer and searched his bookmark directory for the link to _Ronice_ 's profile.

   He had posted a new painting titled "Oracle". A thin young man dressed in modern clothes was sitting in an old stone armchair in the foreground. His elbows on the armrests, his left hand on his lap and the other, with the fingers loosely bent against the palm, against his right cheek to support his slightly tilted head, the man was glancing at the watcher with two bottle-green eyes which seemed able to grasp what was hidden in the soul of people. His curly dark hair was touching his shoulders and his pale neck softly. A round yellow pendant was hanging on a silver necklace. The background gave a dark, eerie atmosphere to the picture. The painter had done a good job indeed.

   He read the description, " _I've worked on this drawing for a few weeks. Indeed, I wanted him to be like an oracle: wise and smart. Hence, I've done and redone those eyes quite a lot. The pendant he wears represents the sun, a metaphor of Apollo_."

   That painting had him wonder. He didn't want to waste his life any longer; hence, he had to do something he thought it was worth doing. He liked writing, but he had stopped when Alfred died — perhaps, it was about time he started to do it again.

   If _Ronice_ could make a great effort to create such a painting, at least Arthur could try scribbling something vaguely readable — this would help him feel better: he did want to strengthen his willpower. Actually, he showed great determination in doing his job properly, but he was helpless when it came to personal matters — and he was weary of this.

   Inspired by the painting, the images which were flying through his mind turned into words and laboriously filled a few pages.

   The sun had already set when he looked up from the monitor. He had forgotten to have lunch and now his stomach was growling. He turned off his computer and sighed. He didn't want to cook anything — he was tired.

   After eating a couple of muffins, he trudged into his room and flopped down on the bed. Hugging his pillow, he reflected on the last month.

   "Hey, Mister Pillow, are you awake? I think I've made a new friend indeed," he muttered, his head sinking into that softness. The only reply he got was that gentle, comfortable touch which resembled a silent, yet heartfelt caress. His eyelids drooped and soon everything darkened.

   The morning came and brought him a new resolution. He would be kinder to Feliciano. Being the first to greet the other when they met could be a good point to start — he should note it down.

   With these thoughts in mind, the Brit took a shower and got ready for work.

   He sat at his desk and read the papers quickly. Soon the babbling Italian approached with his brother.

   "Hi," Arthur uttered. Feliciano flinched and hid behind Ludwig. Voice trembling, he faltered a "hi" in return.

   "Good morning," the German said and sat down at the desk. Then, he spoke "Please, don't frighten him so much, please."

   Arthur looked at him quizzically and explained, "Actually, I was only being polite before. I didn't mean to frighten him or else."

   With his usual, prolonged "Ve~", Feliciano hopped towards the Brit and stepped behind his back. Suddenly, he put his arms around his friend's neck and rubbed his cheek against the other's hair. Arthur stiffened and blushed slightly but didn't utter a word. Then, he tried to relax — he wanted to be kind to him and this was the least he could do.

   The working day passed quickly and the two friends went to the cafeteria nearby.

   "May I ask you a question?" the Brit asked while twisting some strands of pasta around the prongs of his fork.

   Slightly dazed, Feliciano stared at him and faltered, "W-well, it's a bit unusual, but… P-please, feel free to ask whatever you want."

   "You usually don't work overtime. Well, this was true until two a month or so ago. I don't want to seem inquisitive, but why have you started working overtime all of a sudden?" he enquired. Then, he added quickly, "Well, you don't have to answer if you don't feel like doing."

   "No, no. It is okay: I'll tell you. I attended an art academy and got a degree a few years ago. I like drawing very much, but I'm a digital artist — well, I guess I may be defined that way. Being a digital artist entails a lot of technological resources such as computer, graphic tablet and programs — which aren't that cheap. My stuff is pretty old: my computer and my drawing tablet are going to leave me soon, I guess," he explained and let out a chuckle. Then, he added, "I've had them for years, so it's quite normal if they don't work very well anymore… Yes, I've worked — and I still work — on commission, but those tasks don't give me steady earnings, whereas my job does."

   "I see," he uttered.

   "Plus… W-well, I d-do like your company. Y-you're different from what I thought you were," he faltered, a slight blush flashing on his face.

   "Oh, I see… Tha-thank you… We-well, I'd like to observe your drawings," he stuttered and averted his eyes, his heart beating faster and harder. He felt uneasy. "Bloody _Italian and his tendency to speak freely of his feelings_ ," he thought. Still, those words made him happy somehow.

   "If you don't mind, I mean," he added awkwardly.

   For a moment, Feliciano's eyes filled with joy. Fingers moving smoothly, the Italian unlocked his smart phone and searched it for something. He turned it towards his friend, looked away and murmured shyly, "This is my last work."

   Arthur took the mobile and recognised the picture immediately. He couldn't believe it! He observed the picture thoroughly to verify his supposition. That was one of _Ronice_ 's paintings indeed!

   "I… I can't believe you," he said, "sorry."

   "What? And why?" he asked, slightly hurt.

   "I know this painting — I've already seen it online: it's from _Ronice_. It's highly unlikely that web artists like _Ronice_ and I can be friends. Or rather, it's highly unlikely to meet someone strongly talented like him. They are so rare…" he spoke rapidly and awkwardly. He finished his sentence mentally, " _And I don't have many acquaintances._ "

   "Ve~, thanks for the compliment," the Italian giggled, his head tilting back. He signalled him to hand back his phone and grabbed it. Fingers moving quickly, he typed something. Turning his mobile towards his friend, he stated cheerfully despite being slightly hurt by his words, "Here's the proof you need."

   Arthur took the phone, scrolled through the page and stared at him in astonishment. Then, he spoke, "You're really _Ronice_."

   "Yes, I am," he replied, flashing a smile. "Anyway, what about coming to my house this night and staying over?"

   "It's a bit late to ask, isn't it?" the Brit said.

   "But it's a special occasion! It's never too late when something like this happens!" he exclaimed half-jokingly and grinned.

   "What are you talking about?" Arthur asked, looking at him quizzically.

   "It's not an everyday thing to meet a fan!" he joked and chuckled.

   "I'm not a fan, _git_!" he spat out, raising his voice and blushing strongly. Their eyes met and a loud silence fell between them. In their muffled world, Time was left forgotten, its ticks sounding silent.

   Time — the one which ruled Life and which mercilessly made people run faster — had been defeated all of a sudden.

   Words counting no more, their emotions speaking visibly through their eyes, they didn't realise their faces were only inches apart.

   Their breaths brushing against each other's skin, Feliciano whispered, "Please, Art, do come."

   The Brit blinked and drew back. They had almost kissed! How could he do _that_ to Alfred? Wasn't this a betrayal since his love should last forever? He had to be faithful to his beloved… _Or that wasn't the case anymore, was it_? What a mess in his head! He did was in the muddle.

   Arthur breathed twice and closed his eyes. He rubbed his temple and looked at his friend again. Then, he faltered, "Don't… Ah— never mind. Okay, I'll come—"

   He couldn't finish his sentence because Feliciano clapped his hands happily and grinned widely. The Brit sighed and added, "But—"

   "Eh—? What?" the Italian whined.

   "We have to go to my house first: I've to take a few things for the night and the like."

   "Ve~, there are no problems. We don't live that far away so we can stop by your place and pick your things up."

   Arthur sighed and agreed with a nod.

   Soon they left the cafeteria and went into Feliciano's house after picking up the things the Brit needed.

   "Please, make yourself at home," the Italian said with a smile. Then, he added, "You can take a shower — the bathroom is the second door on your left. The first and the second door on your right are the living room and the kitchen, but you can also go into the kitchen from the living room. If you turn left at the end of the hallway, you'll find two doors, the first leads to my room while the second to the guest room — you can use it. If you turn right instead, you'll find only one door, which leads to the living room." He paused and added, rubbing the back of his neck, "Too many doors in here, aren't they?"

   "No, that's fine," Arthur said flatly. After looking around, he noted calmly, "Your house is well furnished indeed."

   "Thank you, Art," he politely replied.

   "You don't have to thank me. It's the truth; otherwise, I would've said it was as pleasant as having ice cubes in the pants," he caustically remarked, "which — trust me — is not my biggest wish."

   Feliciano hugged him from behind and put his head in the hollow of his friend's shoulder, but Arthur shrugged him off and announced flatly, "I'd take a shower if… Well, you've already told me I can so you shouldn't have any problems with that, should you?"

   He paused and moved towards the second door on his left. Then, he added, "This is the bathroom, isn't it?"

   "Oh— y-yes, it is," Feliciano faltered and the Brit entered the room, although it seemed he wasn't paying attention to his host.

   That was strange indeed — Arthur wasn't acting like a gentleman anymore. He was acting like an automated puppet — a broken one — instead. He kept on moving here and there and speaking by following predefined, flawed schemes without realising how much they were hurting him. Actually, they were driving him insane.

   Avoiding or just ignoring one's own feeling was not the best solution — it had never been and it would never be. Perhaps Arthur could vent his feelings if someone, especially a friend, was there and listened, although he generally tried not to be overwhelmed in public. Now they were at home and that could help. Such were Feliciano's hopes.

   Arthur got out of the bathroom and went into the guest room. He quickly blow-dried his hair and lay down on the bed. His right hand resting on his stomach, he started staring at the ceiling indefinitely. He turned on his right side — the door was left behind his shoulders.

   After having a shower and drying his hair, Feliciano knocked at the guest room door and said, "I'm coming in."

   He slowly entered the room. Spreading from the bedside lamp, a dim light was casting shadows here and there. His right hand on his left flank, Arthur was lying with his back towards him.

   Feliciano moved closer to him and noted that his friend wasn't asleep. He sat on the bed and asked, "Ve~, how are you?"

   "A bit tired, thanks," the Brit answered flatly.

   "You're bitterly cold sometimes, you know," the Italian pointed out.

   "I'm tired, and I've already told you that," Arthur murmured. He paused and closed his eyes. Then, he added, "Besides, I don't feel anything when I'm tired."

   "How could that be?" Feliciano asked in disbelief.

   "It is so and that's all," he replied flatly.

   "Do you know, Arthur? Everyone has feelings, but — sometimes — some people may deem that the best is not to think of them or to think they don't have any. Ignoring your emotions is not the best solution, though — they'll ferment and hit harder," the Italian whispered and crawled on the bed. Wearily, he lay down and turned towards his friend. He hugged him from behind and muttered softly, "I hope you'll understand it before it's too late."

   Few silent tears escaping his eyes, Arthur reddened deeply and didn't utter a word. His fingers slowly met Feliciano's hands. Soon they fell asleep.

 

   The Englishman woke up in the middle of the night with the resemblance of an intuition stuck into his mind. Alfred was dead and wouldn't come back. Arthur wouldn't forget him nor would his love end. It would become a different kind of love, though — the deep, now nonsexual one full of old memories he held dear. He was letting him go and moving on, little by little.

   Silent liberating tears marked the turning point in his life.

   His living friends were waiting for him, and now he understood this. He would fight to live with them as long as possible because Time was merciless, especially with those who wasted it.

   He slid on the bed until his feet hit the footboard and turned towards the Italian. Arthur hugged his friend tightly and hid his face in his chest, fingers digging into those well-known gentle shoulders.

   If Feliciano asked, the Brit would blame it on the sleep.

   He felt serene. Now he understood what the Italian had said. Holding all those emotions and thoughts inside was like drowning in murky water. He hoped it wasn't too late.

   A few minutes later, he started dreaming again.

   The pleasant feeling of gentle caresses slowly awoke Feliciano. His eyes fluttered open. A dim, faint light was filtering through the shutter.

   He glanced down and smiled softly. The blond locks of his friend touched his neck lightly. He put his left hand in those tufts and began stroking his hair and rubbing his back affectionately. Arthur's eyes snapped open.

   The Brit roughly pushed him away and spoke sharply, "What are you doing?"

   "Ve~, Art — that hurts!" the Italian exclaimed, complaining and rubbing his chest.

   "You've got what you deserved," Arthur grumbled and stuck out his tongue. He thought unconsciously, " _Highly mature of you_ , really."

   "But you hugged me," Feliciano moaned childishly.

   "I was sleeping — sleep-ing" The Brit declared, blushing strongly.

   "And so what?" the Italian asked. Then, he added happily, "You hugged me anyway!"

   "It doesn't count!" he exclaimed awkwardly and stared at him intensely.

   Eyes half-closed, head tilting back, Feliciano giggled and uttered, "Ve~, Arthur, welcome back!"

   Arthur lowered his head and stared at his hands, pondering what to do. Then, he whispered, "I've been with Alfred for years. I loved him, and I still love him. I think this will never change."

   Head sunk between his shoulders, fists clenched, he sighed and continued, "He died two months ago, when he tried to save a boy whom he didn't know at all. That _bloody_ idiot: he always wanted to be a hero and to save everybody. And then he got killed. He could've cared more for his life — he could've cared more for me, but he didn't evidently."

   His hands shaking slightly, Arthur breathed briefly and added, "I'm moving on now… And I think I should thank you for that."

   Feliciano squeezed his right shoulder and lifted the Brit's chin with his left forefinger. He smiled gently and murmured, "You miss him — it's normal, I guess. He will never leave you until you stop remembering him, though."

   He stroked his friend's hair affectionately. Arthur looked away shyly.

   The atmosphere was so calm that one would want it to soak in. They could hear the imperceptible, yet reassuring sound of their breaths. The dim light of morning brightened their faces faintly and shone in their irises.

   Feliciano's stomach growled all of a sudden. The Italian chuckled and mumbled apologetically, scratching the back of his head, "Ve~, I'm hungry… Would you like any crepes?"

   Arthur blinked in bewilderment and faltered, "Oh, y-yes… That would be fine. Thanks."

   "Okay, then I'll go to make some," he replied and left the room.

   The Brit sighed and got ready for work. Slowly, he walked into the living room and headed towards the window.

   The shops were opening and a stream of people begun crowding the streets. Some of them were trudging back to their dwellings and others were leaving their warm, comfortable houses to go to work in time. Some were holding a toast in their mouth and others were leaning against the walls. Some were smiling affectionately and others were wincing.

   Hands intertwined, Arthur leant forward on the window sill and flashed a smile. Perhaps life wasn't _that_ disgusting.

   He shook his head slightly and half-closed his eyes.

   "You like it, don't you?" Feliciano spoke gently. Arthur leaped up and turned towards him, a quizzical look on his face.

   Arm crossed, the Italian was leaning against the door jamb and smiling a small, warm smile.

   "Oh— yes indeed. You've got quite a delightful sight," the Brit murmured.

   "The crepes are ready. Let's eat, shall we?" Feliciano said. Then, he straightened his spine and walked into the kitchen. Arthur followed him silently. They sat down at the table and ate their breakfast serenely.

   They got ready for work and headed for entryway.

   "You can stay tonight as well," the Italian suggested while closing the front door.

   "Well, you know, Feli… I wouldn't want to impose on you," the Brit muttered. His right hand in the pocket of his jeans, he walked down the walkway.

   Feliciano caught up with him and remarked quietly, "Ve~, you won't impose if you come. Actually, I'd appreciate it very much."

   "I don't think so," he replied and glanced at his friend.

   "And— if I said I'd be offended if you didn't come… What would you do?" he asked casually and half-jokingly.

   "Feliciano, you wouldn't be offended," the Brit responded dully.

   "Prove it," the Italian giggled, his head tilting back.

   Arthur stared at him eloquently and pondered over Feliciano's words for a while. Then, the Brit thought that, _knowing him well_ , it was rather likely that his friend was serious indeed and would take offence if Arthur didn't stay for the night. The Brit sighed and spoke, "Fine, I'll stay at your place tonight, but you have to come to my place and stay overnight tomorrow, okay?"

   "Yup," Feliciano replied cheerfully and clapped his hands, half-closing his eyes. Arthur reflected that maybe this was what his friend wanted from the beginning. Nonetheless, he shook his head and smiled covertly.

   Looking around idly and making small talk, they walked slowly down the street.

   The Brit was changing: indeed, he felt somewhat _lighter_ and _tranquil_. Plus, he could even chat with Feliciano — if someone had told him what would happen before, he wouldn't have believed them for sure!

   The Italian walked into a park. Arthur followed him and asked in bewilderment, "Where are you going? The office is not that way!"

   Suddenly, Feliciano stopped near a bench, looked at his phone and said pensively, "We're earlier than usual."

   The Brit glanced at him quizzically and rebutted, "We can't be earlier than usual since it's the first time we come together."

   The Italian only chuckled in reply and looked around, searching for something. Arthur sighed and asked, "What are we doing here?"

   "We're waiting of course!" his friend exclaimed, still scanning the park randomly.

   "For?" the Brit urged him to explain. _Bloody hell_ , how in the world was it that _that bloke_ babbled ceaselessly and, now that Arthur asked him to speak, he had to pry the words out of him?

   "Ludwig! Whom else should we be waiting for?" the Italian responded as if he _were_ stating the obvious — well, maybe he _was_ , since he and his foster brother always went together to the office.

   "He is a creature of habit, you know. He will be upset if I don't show up here," Feliciano explained and then admitted absent-mindedly, "It's the first time I've been earlier than him."

   The Brit hummed in reply and looked around attentively.

   The leaves were whooshing slowly and indistinctly. Smiles brightening their faces, few people were strolling placidly through the park. A couple of old men were talking calmly while feeding the pigeons with some crumbs of bread and observing the pedestrians. Arthur glanced up at the serene sky and smiled.

   "Hey Ludwig, here," Feliciano greeted his brother, raising his voice and waving his hand dramatically.

   "Hey Feli," the German said while awkwardly reciprocating the gesture. He got closer to them and noticed the Brit. He halted abruptly and looked at them quizzically. Then, he slightly shook his head and greeted his fellow worker, "Good morning, Arthur. It's quite a nice surprise to meet you here."

   "Good morning to you, Ludwig. I could say the same," the Brit spoke flatly and smiled faintly.

   "Ve~, you two could — and should — be less formal!" Feliciano exclaimed while grinning and putting an arm around Arthur's waist and the other around Ludwig's.

   The German blushed slightly and stiffened, whereas the Brit chuckled under his breath and pretended to push the Italian away. Ludwig relaxed a little and asked his fellow worker, "Shall we?"

   "I wouldn't mind," Arthur uttered.

   The Italian grinned and chimed in, "Ve~, it wasn't that hard, was it?"

   They headed towards the office and their workday began soon.

 

   Feliciano slumped on the sofa and muttered wearily, "What a tiring day."

   "Yes, it was," the Brit agreed and sat next to him. After a while, he sighed and added, "May I take a shower?"

   "Go ahead," the Italian replied.

   Both of them showered, individually, and blow-dried their hair. Then, they flopped down on the sofa again.

   The Italian yawned and hugged his friend abruptly.

   "W-what are you doing?" Arthur faltered and tried to pull him away.

   "Cuddling!" he exclaimed cheerfully.

   "W-what? L-let go of me," he stuttered, but the Italian didn't listen to him — he held him tighter instead. The Brit sighed and murmured, "Whatever."

   Feliciano looked at him quizzically, but Arthur didn't explain nor utter a word. He only lay down on the sofa, dragging his friend with himself and closing his eyes. He put his hand in the Italian's hair and petted his head gently.

   When he acted normally, he felt serene. No, he felt happy somehow — hence, what was the point of lying and depriving himself of those joys? _What was the point of insulting himself like that?_ It was tiring and only left him weary at the end of the day because he truly cared for Feliciano in the depths of his heart.

   "You are quite strange, Art," Feliciano mumbled. Arthur calmly hummed in reply.

   "Ve~ Art, we'll catch a cold if we sleep here," the Italian muttered, but soon he noticed his friend's heavy, sleepy breath and added, "Never mind."

   He sighed and threw a blanket on them by using his feet. The Brit chuckled softly and murmured wittily, "Good thing that _I_ was the weird one. _Indeed_."

   "Yes, it is," Feliciano giggled in return, but Arthur was already asleep. The Italian smiled slightly and rested his head on his friend's chest. Soon all became dark.

   The warm feeling of a breathing pillow against his cheek was so wonderful and Feliciano could only think of it. Arms pleasantly numb, legs intertwined in that heavy quilt of his, the Italian hummed quietly and hugged his pillow, which let out a moan. He was too drowsy to care about it, though. He held it tighter and his fingers dug into something strangely stiff. His eyes fluttered open unwillingly and focused on his pillow — well, it wasn't a _pillow_ , technically speaking at least: the fact that _it_ could be used that way was another story. And the fact that " _it_ " was " _he_ " was another " _another story_ ".

   He lifted his torso and noted he was clutching Arthur's ribs. He loosened his grip and rested on his friend's chest while apologising in a low voice. He put a hand near his face, on the Brit's chest, and looked pensively at his relaxed fingers. He listened to those regular heartbeats and let that steady rhythm soak in. Soon his eyelids became heavy and drooped. He fell asleep again.

   Somebody was gently shaking his shoulders and a voice was asking him to wake up. Feliciano begged drowsily, "Please, give me five more minutes."

   "No, we need to get up to go to work," the voice of a man stated flatly. Its seemingly unknown owner let out a sigh and added, "Come on! Wake up!"

   "Ve~, five more minutes," the Italian moaned and turned. Then he hushed him, "And then… Sh! Pillows don't speak."

   "I'm not a pillow — you _git_. Get off of me or I'll push you out of the sofa and, trust me, you wouldn't like it at all," the man threatened. Hearing those words, Feliciano jumped and fell on his friend's abdomen.

   "Ouch," Arthur exclaimed, "You are heavy."

   "Ve~ sorry, Arthur! I didn't mean to hurt you," the Italian apologised awkwardly. Then, he added immediately afterwards, "Are you okay?"

   "Yes…" the Brit whispered almost breathless. He wheezed heavily and he remarked wryly and wittily as well, "Well, I'd be finer if you got off of me, but I suppose I can't expect that much, can I?"

   His head tilting back, Feliciano chortled and teased him playfully and dramatically, "Ladies and gentlemen, may I proudly present Arthur Kirkland, the grouchy gentleman, to you?"

   The Brit cackled, "Stop it, you idiot."

   "Okay, okay. Understood — you've won," the Italian said, raising his hands apologetically and grinning widely. He asked, "What would you want for breakfast?"

   "I've no preferences… I guess you can do whatever you feel like," Arthur answered and headed for the bathroom but stopped halfway. He turned towards his friend and added, "And remember — tonight you _are_ _going to_ stay over at my house."

   "Ve~, I'm looking forward to it! You do know how to make me happy!" Feliciano exclaimed cheerfully and entered the kitchen. Humming a song, he started cooking their breakfast.

   The Brit shook his head and went into the bathroom.

   That atmosphere — the atmosphere Feliciano seemed to create naturally — was slowly soothing him. It made him happy although Alfred wasn't there with him.

   Arthur entered the kitchen and sat on a chair.

   "It's almost baked… Just a few minutes," the Italian stated.

   The Brit shook his head and was soon enraptured by his friend's gestures. He replied absent-mindedly, "Don't worry about that. I can wait."

   The sizzle of frying bacon and its permeating strong aroma spread throughout the room, forewarning them that it was almost cooked. Soon they ate their breakfast and headed for their office.

 

   The day had been tiring. They trudged into Arthur's house and slumped on the sofa.

   "Do you mind if I take a shower?" Feliciano asked in a low voice.

   "Go ahead and try not to fall asleep," the Brit whispered playfully and closed his eyes. The days which had just passed had been quite tiring but still pleasant. As he let the images and the sounds of those serene — and sometimes joyful — moments float within his mind, new ideas for the story he was writing came out. His eyes snapped open. He rummaged his desk for his jotter and for a pencil and noted down his thoughts — he would write new scenes as soon as he could.

   He hid his notepad in his room and took a shower as soon as the Italian exited the bathroom.

   Arthur blow-dried his hair. As he went into the living room, a pleasant view came to his eyes. His t-shirt lifted partially, his right hand now resting on his bare abdomen, his mouth slightly open, Feliciano was serenely sleeping on the sofa.

   The Brit smiled faintly and covered his friend with a blanket. Then, he picked up his laptop and headed for the door.

   "Good night, Feli," he whispered and switched off the light.

   Arthur went into his room and grabbed his jotter; then, he sat on the bed, extended his legs and leant against the headboard. He turned on his computer and opened the draft of his story.

   As his hands moved smoothly on the keyboard, the words flowed quickly on the screen and filled the pages. Rapidly, the second turned into minutes and the minutes turned into hours.

   He couldn't concentrate anymore — his eyes were burning. Perhaps, if he closed his eyes for just a minute, the pain would fade away… Yes that was a great idea. His eyes fluttered closed and soon he sank into sleep. His laptop was left unlocked on his lap.

   The dim, cold light of dawn was filtering through the shutter. Feliciano peeped into the room and smiled slightly. Then, he walked tiptoe towards the bed and picked up his friend's computer. Accidentally, he pressed a key and the screensaver went away.

   "Whoops," he muttered and left the room silently. He put the laptop on the desk and his eyes focused on the document opened. It was quite long — he knew he shouldn't pry into Arthur's stuff, but he was curious. He would only give a brief look at it — that couldn't be that bad, could it?

   He moved the mouse wheel and scrolled up to the beginning of the document.

   That story was good. Indeed. The more he read it, the more he wanted to read it. He was an addiction like pasta — and pasta was beyond everything for Feliciano.

   "What the bloody hell are you doing?" Arthur snapped while stomping into the room. "Who the hell give you the right to snoop into my own business?"

   "Ve~, don't be mad at me Arthur," the Italian whined, almost weeping and protecting himself with his arms. He added confusedly, "I didn't want to pry, but the screensaver went away and I saw this story and it was intriguing and very well written—"

   "Was it?" the Brit asked in astonishment.

   "Yes, it was! It has a magnetic power on me somehow. I couldn't look away from the monitor! You do write well," Feliciano exclaimed emphatically. "I'd like to read how it goes on — if you didn't mind, of course."

   "Is that so?" Arthur asked absent-mindedly. Immediately afterwards, he stated harshly, "That doesn't change the fact that you've been snooping in my own business."

   The Italian moaned persistently, "Ve~? I'm sorry — please Arthur, forgive me. Please, Arthur, please—"

   "Shut up," the Brit snapped while rubbing his temple.

   "Please, Arthur…" he said pitifully, his eyes widely open.

 _Bloody hell_ , the puppy-face no — Arthur had never been able to stand that sight. He snorted, "Fine — no need to apologise."

   "Really? Are you sure?" Feliciano asked quizzically.

   Fingers digging into his neck nervously, he averted his eyes and grumbled, "Yeah, whatever."

   "Ve~, thank you Art!" the Italian exclaimed, though he was still uncertain whether to believe him or not. Nevertheless, he jumped towards his friend, threw his arms around his neck and rubbed his cheek against Arthur's. All things considered, his friend told him it was fine, didn't he?

   The Brit faltered awkwardly, "What are you doing? Let go of me!"

   "Thank you, Art, really. And… I'd appreciate it very much if you let me read the updates — because you don't want to stop writing, do you?" Feliciano whispered uneasily and his embrace came to an end.

   The Englishman hummed in reply and everything became silent for Arthur — silent was their walk to work; silent, their work day; and silent, their meals. Arthur was confused. Feliciano had certainly betrayed him by reading his stuff without asking him for it, but his words had made him feel appreciated — and loved as well. The Brit didn't want to hold a grudge against him. Could he forgive a friend so easily? _Yes, he could_. But… _how_? He had no answers.

   "Ve~ Art, what's going on? You've been absent-minded all day long!" Feliciano pointed out and bit a slice of pizza.

   "Nothing is going on," the Brit responded quickly and stared at his dish.

   The Italian sighed and spoke clearly, "Listen: I do not know what are you thinking about and I will not know it until you explain it to me — I'm not in your head. If something is wrong, just say it."

"It's not that, actually," Arthur whispered while attentively moving the food with a fork.

"Then how is it, Arthur? Please, tell me because I cannot understand it by myself. Not this time," Feliciano said while squeezing his friend's shoulder with a hand. Since he didn't hear any reply, he murmured, "Arthur…?"

Arthur snorted and looked him straight in his eyes. He mumbled wearily, "I… don't understand."

"No, _I_ don't understand — and that's why I'm asking you for the answer," the Italian spoke quickly.

   "No… I don't understand myself," he muttered and averted his gaze.

   "Ve~, that's surely helpful," Feliciano thought out loud and dramatically put his left hand on his chest. Arthur chuckled tiredly.

   The days had passed. The matter was slowly settled and their relationship deepened. Head sunk between his shoulders, hands in the pockets of his coat, Arthur walked slowly through the graves. He stopped in front of a headstone and crouched down.

   He whispered, "Hey Alfred. You know, we haven't talked since you died. I think that now we should bring up the matter, shouldn't we? I've deemed you to be a betrayer for so long… I mean, you gave your own life to save a boy you've never seen before — and you did it without blinking an eye, as if I meant nothing to you! I've been wondering whether you had thought about it or not before doing it. Nonetheless, I don't hold any grudge against you anymore. I think I understand you now."

   He sighed and observed the gravestone. His eyes followed the veins of the marble throughout their path. Then, he continued, "You know that I love you and this will never change, don't you?"

   He wiped the tears from his face and confessed, "I miss you. I'm learning to live without you, though. I know you won't come back."

   His fingers brushed against the name engraved in the marble. He whispered, "You might have noticed that I've changed a lot… Do you remember the Italian co-worker whom I told you about? I think we've become friends — I know you'd have grinned moronically if you weren't dead. His presence has helped me a lot."

   He stood up and uttered, "Thank you, Alfred. Thank you for having existed. I've really appreciate it."

   He had done it in the end. He sighed and headed for the cemetery gate.

   "Arthur, wait," a man said from behind.

   The Brit knew that voice well… Could it be… Feliciano? He turned towards the owner of that voice and his suspicion was confirmed.

   "What… What are you doing here?" Arthur asked.

   "Visiting my parents and my brother — you remember my story, don't you?" the Italian explained calmly.

   "I didn't know they were buried in here," he replied.

   "It happens," Feliciano muttered. After a brief silence, he added, "Anyway, let's go to my house, shall we?"

   "Let's," the Brit said briefly.

   Hands in their own pockets, they exited the graveyard and walked side by side without uttering a single word.

   Feliciano slightly grabbed the Brit's sleeve by the elbow and spoke, "Ve~ Arthur, what were you doing in the cemetery?"

   The Brit stopped and answered naturally, "Talking to a dead man, what else?"

   "Don't state the obvious," the Italian remarked light-heartedly and chuckled softly.

   "Then, don't ask the obvious," Arthur joked.

   Feliciano grinned and dropped the matter. He released the grip on his friend's coat and outstretched his hand. Their hands intertwined and they continued their walk.

   "It's nice to have you around," the Italian whispered while unlocking the front door.

   "I can say the same," Arthur muttered awkwardly.

   They went into the living room and slumped on the sofa.

   Feliciano observed his friend carefully and silently. It had been nearly two months from the beginning of that strange friendship of theirs, though it seemed to have been years, _or decades_. Both of them had changed — their mutual intimacy had prompted them to. Now they were wiser and less lonely: they were still lonely — everyone was — but he felt as if the fingers of their solitude brushed against each other. And every touch, even the slightest, was a warm feeling which went straight to his heart. He wondered if Arthur felt the same.

   "Ve~ Arthur… Cuddle! Cuddle" he murmured childishly and pulled the Brit's sleeve by the elbow.

   The Englishman sighed with a sigh of feigned resignation and put his arm around his friend's shoulders. He put his mouth close to the Italian right ear and mumbled, "Are you happy now?"

   "Yes, I am," Feliciano stated — his voice was muffled by Arthur's shirt. The Brit rolled his eyes and tilted his head back until he hit the wall with a thud.

   The Italian chuckled and uttered despite the glare his friend was giving him, "Few months ago, you wouldn't have acted this way."

   "I have changed, Feli — and I'm not the only one," Arthur murmured.

   "We were so different I wouldn't expect us to become friends," Feliciano observed and put his left arm around the Brit's waist.

   "People may learn how to get along well by sharing time together," he replied.

   "If that's your point of view, then what do you think about love?" the Italian asked while looking him in his eyes.

   "Love happens by chance and motives — there are unpredictable factors which influence our choices, so we can meet somebody or discover something by chance, but we cannot start a relationship without any reason, which may be interest, esteem and so forth," Arthur responded calmly.

   Feliciano shook his head and said, "Ve~, that's rather cold, but it's not completely wrong…"

   The Brit tightened his grip on his friend's shoulder and uttered, "Amen."

   That afternoon passed idly.

 

   It befell in those sunny days of May, when the evening lengthened and the weather became milder, that their relationship changed beyond the point of no return. They were consuming their lunch with Ludwig at their habitual cafeteria — the Italian was babbling as was his wont, Arthur listening silently, and the German observing them quietly.

   The Brit had studied his gestures throughout the meal — Feliciano kept on pulling his sleeve and looking at the watch and was also speaking faster than usual. Arthur had seen such restless behaviour only when his friend was very nervous.

   The Englishman turned towards Feliciano, who was looking at him, and put his index finger against his friend's forehead. Then, he ordered firmly, "Quieten, now."

   Fear flashing in his eyes, the Italian did as he was commanded and apologised sheepishly. Arthur ignored his words and asked gently, "Now, can you tell me what's wrong?"

   Feliciano avoided the Brit's gaze and complained awkwardly, "Ve~ Art, I'm a bit nervous… Today is the day when I get the results of the drawing contest."

   "You'll win — I bet it," the Brit whispered while stroking his shoulders.

   "Ve~, thank you, Art," the Italian murmured.

   Ludwig tapped his palm on his leg and exclaimed, "I got it! You've become a couple and that's why you seem so different lately!"

   Arthur let out a hesitant, surprised " _Uh_ " and looked away. Feliciano replied sincerely, a little embarrassed, "Ve~ Ludwig, you're mistaken: we're not a couple! None of us has asked to the other yet."

   "Exactly, none of us has asked to the… Hey, wait! What is this supposed to mean?" the Brit faltered awkwardly and blushed strongly.

   "Have you done it? No. Have I done it? No. Therefore, none of us has done it," Feliciano responded while looking at his own feet.

   "What a pity! You do seem a wonderful couple," Ludwig thought out loud. His friends turned towards him and gave him a sideways embarrassed glance.

   Soon they resumed their work.

   Few hours later, when the German had already gone to his own home and the two friends were about to exit the office, Feliciano asked shyly, "Would you like to stay at my house for the night? I'll get the results in few hours and I'm still anxious."

   "Sure, why not?" Arthur replied sincerely — seeing his friend in such a state caused him quasi-physical pain.

   "Ve~, thank you, Art," the Italian said cheerfully.

   "Let's go, shall we?" the Brit suggested.

   "Ve~," Feliciano uttered happily and dragged his friend out of the office.

 

   Five minutes — five minutes until they knew the winner. Arthur would read the results and then he would tell Feliciano the news: the Italian would be too anxious otherwise. Indeed, he hadn't stopped his nail-biting since they slumped on the sofa.

   "Feli… You know you do have talent. Don't worry so much," the Brit tried to calm his friend for the umpteenth time, but all his efforts were to no avail. He sighed and opened the browser.

   Two minutes — two more minutes and this hell would be over. A thick, uncomfortable silence had fallen between them; still, nobody dared to speak.

   Arthur glanced at his friend. Feliciano was still on the sofa — and in the same posture: he was leaning against the soft cushions and hugging his legs while biting his nails.

   The Brit shook his head and typed the address. If he didn't know him well, he'd say he was exaggerating dramatically and unrealistically. Unfortunately, Feliciano wasn't pretending. Such was his character.

   One minute — only sixty seconds and they would finally know whether Feliciano won or not. Arthur had started moving his right leg in continuous, fast up-and-down movement and stared at the clock intently.

   No minutes left — he tapped the enter key. The Italian had increased his biting speed considerably.

   The Brit held his breath and looked at the monitor — Feliciano Vargas Beilschmidt, first. His friend won, in the end.

   Arthur moved close to Feliciano and put his hands on his shoulders. Then, he looked him straight in his eyes and spoke gently, "You've won, Feli."

   Mouth slightly open, his mind still working to understand the meaning of those words, the Italian stared at him in bewilderment without truly seeing him. Suddenly, he threw his arms around the Brit's neck and kissed him.

   "Ve… S-sorry, Arthur," Feliciano faltered as soon as their lips disunited and withdrew his arms from his friend.

   "For what?" the Brit asked while tugging the Italian towards himself. Their mouths joined again.

   "A-A-Arthur w-w-what's this?" Feliciano stuttered while blushing strongly and trembling faintly.

   "A kiss?" he stated the obvious.

   "Yes, but why?" the Italian asked.

   "Why shouldn't I have done it? First hypothesis: we mustn't waste our life — true, and you certainly agree, since you told me that in the first place. Second hypothesis: you care for me and you like me as well," he replied flatly and glanced at his friend.

   Feliciano blushed and stated, "… Well, true."

   "Third hypothesis: I'm fond of you and I like you as well… True." The Brit continued and reddened slightly.

   The Italian laughed and apologised immediately after noticing Arthur's glare, "You're talking like Ludwig now."

   The Englishman rolled his eyes and stared at him speechlessly. Then, he petted his head and murmured gently, "Why don't we give a try? Would you like to…?"

   Feliciano nodded faintly and Arthur hugged him loosely and affectionately. Slowly, a soft, delicate silence made of gentle caresses fell between them.

   "I've already told you you've changed, haven't I?" Feliciano whispered in his ear while playing with a tuft of the Brit's hair.

   "Yes, you have," Arthur mumbled gently. Those three simple words closed their conversation for that day.

* * *

   Arthur published his first book before New Year's Eve. A second book came after and a third was about to be started. Feliciano drew all his front covers.

   It was a day of May and the weather was fine — the clouds were moving slowly and silently, the sun was shining brightly and the wind was blowing softly and caressing the whooshing leaves. The children were playing cheerfully in a park while being monitored by their worried parents. All their noise was muffled for Arthur and Feliciano, though. The couple was lying on the grass and looking absent-mindedly at the sky.

   "Are you happy, Feli?" the Brit whispered gently. Still, he knew his boyfriend could hear him.

   The Italian casted a glance at Arthur and asked, "Yes, I am. And you, Art? Are you happy?"

   "Yes, I am," the Englishman replied.

   "Ve~," Feliciano cheerfully murmured.

   Such was the story of Arthur and Feliciano; such, their problems; such, their hopes. They had grown — they had suffered (they had grieved), but they had learnt how to achieve their happiness, and they would do everything not to let go of it.

_The end._


End file.
